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Wednesday, February 26, 2014

I commute to work. During rush hour it
is a 50 minute, 17 mile drive. Or a 35 minute train ride.

Unless there is a Windnato.

(Windnato is a real word. Windnato:
from the meteorologic To Be Freakin'Windy and not in a Tornado way but
in a Big Bad Wolf – That's Right, I AM Going to Blow Your House to
Oz. You, your half brick house, your train and Your Little Dog TOO!
Due to poor organizational skills, Windnato does not get the respect
that Tornado gets. It should really try harder.)

On the day that Windnato hit I got out
of work about an hour early. (This will be important later during the
math portion of this post.) It was my next to last day of work. Bart,
who had been gone overnight, would be home. As I walked down the
fifty stairs to the platform the wonky alarm was sounding.

It seems, Windnato had taken out one
third of the train route with a flying cow or house or something.
Consequently, we Eastbounders would be... (scary, dramatic pause
where you see the shadowy figure with an ax lurking just behind you)
Bus Bridged.

Until this day, I have managed to avoid
the Bus Bridge. I assumed it was something in the
universe that prevented all manner of bad things happening to me.
Turns out, it was just dumb luck.

I dutifully walked, with the rest of
the Eastbounders, towards the bus depot where we were semi-assembled
on the grassy knoll alongside Taylor Ave. Taylor is one of those
oldish city streets which is fed by no less than two side streets,
two parking lots and the aforementioned bus depot. It is also crossed
by the now FEMA certified train tracks.

Instruction was minimal. Mostly 'The
buses are on their way' and 'Please stay out of the street. We are
already having a bad enough day and don't really won't to have to
scrape you off the pavement.'

The first bus arrived to cheers only to
be soundly booed when it was noted to be (ONE) packed and (TWO)
Westbound.

Four packed buses later, I crammed onto
the back of an Eastbounder. Where I was promptly offered a swig of
Strawberry/Kiwi wine. People were laughing and comparing Bus
Bridge horror stories. Camaraderie was high.

For one block.

It really got ugly as we circled the
block where we were first picked up. There was discussion of the
right on red capabilities of the bus company and the IQ of the
driver. Also his genetic legitimacy.

Then it began to smell.

Bad.

Really bad.

And then it got quiet.

Quiet is never good.

One hour later we arrived at the first
working station for the Eastbound train. It was one stop east of
where we started, maybe two miles away. Let me state this again.

ONE HOUR LATER.

We piled off the bus and towards the
platform where we were greeted by a train on our Eastbound track.
However, the train was heading West. In train lingo this is known as
Single Tracking.

It is exactly what it sounds like and
it is terrifying. You are essentially riding a train into on-coming
traffic with only those pretend train track traffic lights to protect
you.

There were a half dozen smug westbound
riders pressing their faces upon the glass of the windows staring out
of their warm cars as we Bus Bridge refugees stood
huddled under the fluorescent heat lamps as Windnato continued to
blast us with Arctic Vortex furry. Clouds sped past at nearly 45 miles
an hour.

Which is much faster than any mode of
transport had moved thus far tonight.

I was beginning to curse the fact that
I had been lured by the unseasonably warm 60 degree forecast and left
my hat at home. My coat was warm but as discussed in other posts,
scrub pants are little more than glorified bed sheet pajamas. My legs
were morphing into Otter Pops and then it happened.

The Wonky Alarm sounded.

And the train conductor announced,
"This train in out of service. It will resume service
Eastbound".

Confetti fell from the sky and someone
sprayed champagne as a cheer went up from the platform. (or it may
have been a two liter soda and some shredded newspaper caught up in
Windnato's fury. But the cheer was sincere.)

A toxic cloud of curses boiled from the
train cars as the doors open to expell those smug Westbounders who
were now being directed to the ...BUS BRIDGE!

Forty minutes later - at the time I would normally have gotten home
if I had left work at the regular time - I arrived at my home
platform.

It was pitch black. As was my house.

It seems Windnato has NO respect for Thursday night television.

I swore I would never ride the train again.

I drove in on Friday. I had plans to meet some friends later and once
again the work Gods were with me and I was released 40 minutes early.
Perfect. I would meet the girls at about the time I would have been
leaving work.

Except...

The van refused to start.

I have come to the conclusion that either I am not allowed to leave
work early or I am never going to work again.

Since the later is not a possibility I am researching sacrificial
items to offer up to the Gods of Mass Transit and the Goddess of 2002
Venture Van Fuel Pumps.

Because nothing is sweeter than arriving home before you should have
clocked out.

*I have calmed down a little from this harrowing episode. Although
there were several fiery phone calls home during this entire ordeal.
I tend to start off taking delays in my routine very personally and
expect Bart to fix them, immediately. He offered to rescue me
numerous times but I was feeling martyr-ey. Once I calmed down I
started playing a game of It Could Always Be Worse and realized that
I am lucky to have people who offered to rescue me at any given time,
I didn't have small children waiting extra hours in daycare for me to
finally arrive and I had a coat.

**Windnato was a nightmare. Winds were clocked at 40-45 miles an hour
and took out power over apx 1/3rd of the Coast of Illinois
area. It also appears to hate train track cross bars as I counted
about fifteen broken ones on that final ride home.

***In an effort to make driving better, the Coast of Illinois has
opened a new bridge. It is beautiful and named after Stan Musial.
Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce Stan, the Span:

Stan is gorgeous with suspensions that mimic the Arch. Thanks to my friend Julie for the pic. When I tried to take one all I got was rearview mirror and car sick.

Oh,
and battery operated appliances which probably should not be battery
operated.

I had to purchase a new
razor. The latch-thing which holds the ridiculously wide, imbedded
with moisturizer & aloe for your comfort, blade broke thus making
it impossible to not amputate my ankle bone in the shower. Of course,
the ridiculously wide blade is SO wide that I could almost maneuver
it without a handle but between the soap and the moisturizer &
aloe imbedding all I ended up doing was grabbing the wrong edge of the
blade.

So in the interest of saving
my thumb and not giving myself tetanus or using up my newly assigned
health benefits, I went to my favorite Bulls-eye Store where I was
assaulted and a little insulted by the genius of Marketing.

It is pretty common
knowledge that anything meant for purchase by women for women costs
more money. It is more expensive to get your haircut and have your
clothes dry cleaned if you are the proud owner of a uterus.

But $5 more per razor?

Aren't men the ones who
perpetuated the ideal of women being frugal and semi-hairless?

I studied the row of razors
and corresponding blades, all named for Greek goddesses and Female
activists. I then studied the row of razors and corresponding blades
named for fast cars and testosteroney things. The only difference I
could find, besides the price and the ridiculously wide blades
(imbedded/moisturizer&aloe4yourComfort), was the pink and
purple colors of the women's razors.

I had no idea that the
pigments to create pink and purple were so precious.

I returned to the men's
aisle.

(Does anyone else find it a
little excessive that there are entire aisles dedicated to Men and
Women's shaving needs?)

Anyway. I noted a tiny sale
tab next to a rather ecologically colored razor promising a $5 gift
card with purchase. Not only could I SAVE $5 by purchasing the men's
version but I could also EARN $5! Way to stick it to the Man!

I felt quite rebelliously
gender-bendy and frugal as I tossed the delightful tan and green
razor for sensitive skin because boys, you're worth it, into my cart
and headed to the check-out to claim my gift card. Which I promptly
used on a VENTI (Italian for big-ass. As in, I like venti-butts
and I can not lie.) latte at the Bulls-eye Starbucks.

Later, as I wrestled the new
razor from its hermetically sealed plastic, I was surprised to find
it came with one AAA battery. Upon further inspection it was
determined that I had purchased a vibrating razor.

Let's say that together:
Vibrating. Razor

Now, I am not making any
judgements here. Nor am I suggesting or revealing anything about
myself (as my parents usually read this blog) but....I have attended
a couple of those 'Adult Toy' parties and I do not recall ANY of
those 'toys' using anything smaller than C or D batteries. Plural. If
anyone is purchasing a RAZOR to 'entertain' themselves in the shower
I feel I am pretty safe making the assumption that one tiny AAA
battery is not going to provide enough power 'for your comfort'.

Not that anyone would use a
RAZOR in such an off-label manner.

But why for the love of
Band-aids would you want a blade to VIBRATE anywhere near your ankle,
shin or ...anywhere???

And this is a MEN'S razor?
Just what the heck are you men shaving?

No. Don't answer that.

Really.

Don't.

For the benefit of research,
I put the battery into the razor. There didn't seem to be an on/off
switch. I thought perhaps the shaving motion would activate it but
nothing happened but a clean close shave. Until I got to my ankle. As
I readjusted the grip on the razor my hand grasped the button which
releases the blade. And turns on the vibrating action.

The surprise caused me to
drop the razor which sent the normally-wide blade, imbedded with a
tiny amount of moisturizer because men like soft skin too, flying
towards the shower drain and away from my ankle.

Thus saving me from
amputating my right ankle bone.

Thank you Marketing.

(PS - I have discovered that using conditioner rather than shaving cream or plain old soap actually leads to much smoother, softer legs with less dry skin. Give it a try. Plus, when those little leg hairs grow back, they are super shiny.)

Friday, February 14, 2014

Was hoping to have a pleasant Valentine's Day. Off work,writing a new blog post, doing a little shopping, working on the novel that has been bugging me all week, cooking a fancy-schmancy dinner...
But instead...
I am going to work because of a little thing called 'being on call'.
Oh, and it's sleeting...

So here is my thought on today:

and it's 'Modern Art' so there's that culture factor

Underwear for Valentine's Day.
Always Sexy...

*The World's Largest Underpants, along with wonders too numerous to mention, can be found at the City Museum. It is in the City. It is like no other 'museum' in the world. Because there is a school bus hanging off the roof. And an ancient ferris wheel. On the roof. And a 10 story slide...

Friday, February 7, 2014

Oh sure, break that down over the 18
months I have been doing this and we are looking at an average 555 to
555.72 views per month. Some of those Big Box Blogs have 10000 views
a day but do they have readers in Italy?

How about Brazil?

And China???

(probably.)

But do they know people in those
places?

I don't know anyone in those countries
and as my husband pointed out, our nephew the world traveler can't be
in all those countries at once.

So, you have only yourselves to blame!

And to that I need to say THANK YOU!
Thank you for the encouragement your views give me. Thank you for the
comments, although rare, still important. And Thank you for coming
back again, even after your web search for 'fifty year old woman +
underwear' brought you to me.

I promise never to doubt you. Or
judge...

I feel like the Queen of the World! Altho JoeyKatt prefers to think of me as the human in control of the food cupboard.

*As of this posting the views were up
to a whopping 10024! Which puts me at a solid 556 views per month.
And that is about all the math I can do today.

Blah Blah...

I'm a landlocked beach bum here on the Coast of Illinois. No...not that Coast, you know, the one with broad shoulders. The other Coast. The one with tug boats and Arches and a bunch of ancient dead guys buried in Mounds.
I am an inadvertent sailor-thanks to my husband and our 15 foot handmade wooden sloop...for which I made the sails!
I am here to promote the beach bum lifestyle, even when surrounded by corn and clay and I hope to point out the everyday weirdness that is easy to miss because once you start seeing hairnets, you will never stop seeing hairnets.

I have a palm tree necklace. It set us back a whole ten dollars, purchased on the boardwalk in Destin, Florida during the first trip ...

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Hey Europe!

Just got a notice, due to the high number of hits in Europe (!!!) that I am required to inform you that there may be cookies attached to this blog. I am told these are tracking cookies. I know. I was disappointed too. I was hoping for a nice gooey chocolate chip or Mexican chocolate. But, NO. There are no chocolate chip cookies. Just computer type cookies. I am not sure what else to do about this. If you are in Europe and reading my blog, first of all, THANKS! Secondly, if you are one of the half dozen Russian type porn sites, STOP IT. And thirdly, if you are one of my five relatives living in Europe, MISS YOU ALL AND LOVE YOU! If there is a problem please contact me Europe. I am a very delightful person and hope to visit you again one day.